LA MAISON DU DÉLICE
PAUL HAWORTH
NINE
The secretary opened the door and in walked TR James.
Flabbergasted.
Couldn’t believe it.
Why I couldn’t believe it, I don’t know: obviously my nefarious biographer should attend. Why wouldn’t she cover my downfall?
I stared daggers at her, not that that was any use - she had on a pair of black shades and looked ahead, impassively.
Yap yap.
This sound preceded the entrance of—
Yap yap yap.
—the most adorable of puppies. Oh my God. Even the Rt Hon Rufus seemed disarmed by this bundle of purple-grey fat rolls. Its benevolent-clueless expression was transcendentally cute. Pulling at its leash, the dog dragged my deceiver into the room.
Sami looked better than ever. In spite of his being a ne’erdowell to me, I was pleased to see him returned to his former stature, and reunited with Samia-reincarnate. Sami picked up the squishy puppy and sat beside TR James.
Enter: Jenna and Ray Freer.
Dressed in black-on-black, with more black. Very funereal. You know what the kicker was? With the exception of Nu-Samia, every member of the public gallery wore shades. Even Ray’s visor displayed an image of sunglasses. Not one of my assassins could look me in the eye.
I was livid. I seethed. I was furious at the lot of them. (Not Ray - I had no beef with him and still wished him well.) Why were they even here? The verdict was never in doubt. There’s your answer: humans are fond of a public execution. And I suppose they wanted to see how far the mighty had fallen…
Following the ‘arrest’, I was transported in a private jet. I knew my destination was Confoederatio Helvetica and as the plane traversed earth, I grew sicker and weaker. By the time my jet landed at Berne airport, I was a dribbling wreck.
A limo took me to my new home.
It had all happened so quickly. A fever dream. Freerland, arrest, deportation, Confoederatio Helvetica. I was so easily malleable and it was practically a vegetable they deposited in that yellow room on the seventh floor of La Maison du Délice.
Guess who the first person to contact me there was? No, not Roland. TR James. Requesting an interview to ‘share [my] side of the story and ensure [my] voice gets heard.’
Ensure my voice gets heard!?
I was convinced she was in cahoots with Jenna...building a narrative against me...so that I would be portrayed as a wrongun who deserved to be subjected to a kangaroo court and locked up in an experimental jail...jail was too good for ‘The Playboy Dealer’ after all!
I found myself breaking court convention to stand and make the following announcement:
“TR James is a liar and a hack with a personal vendetta against me and not a word she speaks or publishes is to be trusted!”
Instantly I regretted the outburst. I deflated back into my chair and watched TR James scribble in a notebook, knowing that in print my words would read as insane, aggressive, delusional, egotistical, villainous - when the whole time it was she who was the villain.
Judge Burov appeared on the flatscreen.
“All rise,” said the secretary.
Everyone stood and watched the judge take his seat and fiddle with his mic.
“Can you hear me?”
CAN - YOU - HEAR - ME
His words appeared as blocks of subtitles typed along the bottom of the screen.
“Yes, sir,” said the secretary.
“Be seated.”
The judge went over papers, page after page, as he sipped from a mug. Joep, mirroring what was happening on the flatscreen, fussed over his papers. Finally, the judge spoke, “This has been a case…”
THIS - HAS - BEEN - A CASE
He paused.
TR James scribbled away. I dreaded to think of the article she’d concoct from this. She’d have a trilogy of anti-Patric longreads. I forced myself to look away, and directed my attention to the print on the wall.
I used to not like Magritte. I didn’t care for his handling of paint (too dry, too illustrative). More than that, I did not appreciate Surrealism: it was art from a world and generation to which I did not connect. That was before I became ensnared in a legal maze. My time in this room and proximity to solicitors unlocked Surrealism’s potency.
I came to find much in that print to ponder. The separation of word, object and meaning - that anybody could interpret anything any way they saw fit - encapsulated law completely. The print had undoubtedly been chosen by the interior designer as a coruscating commentary on what would take place within these walls.
“...of considerable challenges,” the judge said at last. “Those challenges are more a matter of under which legal regime this case is to be prosecuted. A British national committing a crime against American and Australian citizens involving property held in Switzerland, and an arrest in the territory of Freerland which is not, at present recognised as an independent legal entity by any international legal statues, with the exception of The Sovereign Military Order of Malta, itself an entity of unclear status in international law. Mercifully, under the legal systems of all countries, the defendant’s guilt is unequivocal. Discussion, over the past weeks, has not been to establish guilt rather than to establish under what law-slash-laws to prosecute. The prosecuting counsel has put forward the case for Freerish Law, and it has been my duty to test the viability of said law and its accordance with established systems. This might be perceived that I am siding with the prosecution, but Miss Freer is not to have a complete victory in this matter, as I dismiss their plea to hold the defendant in Freerish Prison. I do, however, concede that a prison sentence is necessitated in a matter of such seriousness...”
Time served...time served...time served.
With all my strength I did The Secret. I closed my eyes and pictured the subtitles TIME - SERVED. But that’s not how The Secret works. There can be no doubt: one must be completely sure of the future. All I was doing was sending panicked energy into the Universe.
“I hereby declare Mr Patric Farmer responsible for the recovery of all legal costs and damages to Miss Freer and compensation to Mr Leitch to the sum of 120 million dollars US and I sentence the accused, with time served, to a further seven years imprisonment.”
Cheers.
Whooping.
Gleeful barks.
The smack of high-fives and clap of back slaps.
Samia-reincarnate leaped from her owner’s lap and frolicked in circles. Joep knocked over a glass of water. It poured onto my lap. The judge kept talking. I couldn’t hear him so had to follow the subtitles:
FOLLOWING - RECENT - LEGISLATION - FROM - UK - HOME - OFFICE - PRISONER - SHALL - BE - RETURNED - TO - COUNTRY - OF - BIRTH - TO - SERVE - HIS - SENTENCE
But I’m a British citizen, I remember thinking feebly.